


The Road

by Basingstoke



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Physical Disability, Winter, a commemorative plaque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: Jim rescues Oswald, and then they figure out where to go next, very literally. Set in the near future of S3.





	

Big hero Jim rescued the mayor. Hot damn. 

Now they're standing on a frozen road miles outside of Gotham with no ride, because they blew up the mayor's car, and Jim hitched a ride in the trunk, and they both lost their phones in the explosion.

"What a pickle," Cobblepot says. "I suppose we walk." 

Jim looks at Cobblepot's leg with its sideways foot. "You could stay here…"

"Absolutely not." Cobblepot shoots both his cuffs and starts walking, wearing the dirt and the soot and the limp like a costume in a movie. 

"There's a gas station--"

"Two miles that way," Cobblepot finishes. "I know."

"I guess you know this town as well as I do. You would have to."

"I want to. I adore this horrible place and every filthy soul that dwells within it." His grin, when he glances up at Jim, is wide and manic. 

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Mayor." 

Cobblepot's umbrella-cane jabs into the slush with an angry whisper. He's still looking at Jim. "Are you warm enough? You're not wearing a hat, my friend." 

Cobblepot is wearing a thick black wool coat, woven blood red scarf and gloves, and an embroidered concoction of gold and red velvet on his head. Jim has his raincoat. "I'm fine for now. The fight warmed me up." 

"True. But the warmth will fade and the cold will creep in, as it always does."

"I have a scarf in my pocket," he says. "Do you know who tried to kidnap you?" 

Cobblepot widens his eyes. Lying like a rug. "Indeed not, Detective. Once we return to the city, my personal security team will be at your disposal, along with my duty calendar. I sincerely hope you can locate the guiding force behind those miscreants."

Translation: it's got nothing to do with him being the Mayor. Jim exhales. "Thanks." He looks back at the smoking car. 

They both pick their way along the road. It was plowed, but there's a light dusting of new snow; this means there are patches of ice lurking invisibly underfoot. Penguin starts sliding his umbrella ahead of him, and Jim wonders why until he sees Penguin pick his way around a frozen puddle. He's testing the ground. Clever. 

He watches Cobblepot's plumes of breath "Hey, I've been meaning to ask," Jim says. "Your mother--and I'm sorry about her, she was a good mother--" 

Cobblepot nods. "Thank you, Jim. I miss her every day." 

Jim does, in fact, think she was a good mother to Penguin; he thinks she was probably just as much of a corkscrew as her son. He wonders what her body count was. "But she spelled her name Kapelput, and your legal name is Cobblepot. I know that from the ballot. You don't seem like the kind of man to play around with the family name."

"Indeed not," Cobblepot says. "Absolutely not. But in fact, this is my name since birth; it's a funny story. My mother had a difficult time bringing me into the world. I was born backwards, with the cord wrapped around my neck." 

Jim isn't even a little bit surprised. 

"My mother named me as soon as I was born. _Oswald Kapelput_." He says his first name with a V instead of a W. "And then she lapsed into a coma before she could check the spelling on my birth certificate. The doctor made rather a hash of it," Cobblepot says, giggling. "Once she awoke, the birth certificate had been submitted already, and my name would have to be changed at the courthouse. She likes it, though. Liked it," he corrects, a shadow passing over his face. "An American name for her American child." 

"That is funny," Jim says. They're still moving, the smoke fading further and further into the distance. He can't see the gas station past the twists in the road. "Did you know your father?" He tries to make the question neutral, but it really can't be, he realizes, too late. This is why he was never a success at Barbara's cocktail parties.No skill at small talk.

"Briefly," Cobblepot says. Something passes over his face. "He was murdered too."

"I'm sorry. My father was killed by a drunk driver," he says. "I can never decide if that's a murder or not."

"How dreadful. There is something so empty about a death caused by carelessness rather than malice. Killing should be personal, or at least business. There should be a purpose." 

Jim meets his eyes. "I agree." And he does. He absolutely does. "Though old age is preferable." 

"Well," Cobblepot says. "Old age isn't for everyone."

Certainly not for either of them. 

His nose is burning with cold. He pulls his scarf out of his pocket and puts it on; it's body-warm already, and he feels better. He still can't see the damn service station, though. 

Cobblepot tsks. "A black scarf and a brown coat? Detective Gordon, are you colorblind?" 

"No. I just don't care." Jim laughs at the pained sound Cobblepot makes. "Fashion isn't for everyone."

"No-one wears brown in Gotham," Cobblepot says.

"All the cops do."

"I shall pass a sumptuary law. Why don't detectives wear uniforms? Everyone looks better in a police uniform."

"Dunno. You should see my Army service uniform. Dark green, gold buttons, medals. I think even you would approve."

"Much better," Cobblepot says. "Much more Gotham."

"I am a native, you know. I was born on this road," Jim says. "Probably not far from here. My parents were coming back from Metropolis when Mom went into labor. She said I came so fast she nearly dropped me on the floorboards." 

Cobblepot laughs. "A plaque," he says. "Jim Gordon's first ambush. I'll put it here," he says, digging his umbrella into the earth by the side of the road. The motion throws him off and Jim thinks he's going to fall, but he swings back into step without blinking.

"I don't know if that's plaque-worthy," Jim says, smiling. 

"No? I shall save that tidbit for my speech, then, when I open your museum exhibit--" at which point Cobblepot steps into a pothole.

They're close enough that Jim grabs his sleeve as he falls. Cobblepot swings from his grip, landing on his ass in the snow, sprawled against Jim's shins. His other hand, flailing, catches hold of the hem of Jim's coat. They both freeze for a moment. 

Shit. Cobblepot's face is a mask of rage. His teeth are bared and he pants, shallowly, as he tries to pull himself upright with no leverage. 

His knee has to hurt like hellfire. "Let me get your umbrella, Mr. Mayor," Jim says, pulling Cobblepot slightly so he has enough balance to sit up.

Cobblepot catches his breath. "Thank you." He sits with both legs straight, spread at a wide angle. He looks like an expensive doll. 

By the time Jim fetches his umbrella-cane, Cobblepot has his face back under control. "Can I help you up, Mr. Mayor?" Jim asks. 

"Yes," Cobblepot says. "Yes, please, help me up. It was a long day already, made longer by this unfortunate incident. I must have this road fixed." He gives Jim his hand and a pleasant smile.

Cobblepot is heavier than he looks. Wiry muscle, no fat at all. Jim had expected a least a little alcohol padding, from the nightclub life. Once upright, Cobblepot leans on Jim's arm, all his weight on his good leg. 

He quivers in his skin like he has lightning in his veins. Jim can see his heartbeat throbbing hard and fast beneath his chin. Cobblepot is sweating, as well, and he smells like pain; it's like the smell of fear, but less urgent and more hopeless. "Do you have anything for the pain?" Jim asks softly. "Vicodin?" 

Cobblepot shakes his head. 

"Okay. Let's just rest for a minute." 

Cobblepot sighs, balancing on his arm like a ballerina en pointe. "We must continue, therefore I will continue." 

"Yeah. But we can rest right this second." Jim stands firm and lets Cobblepot lean on his body. 

He likes the feel of someone else's weight on him. He thinks of Barbara, drunk, of swinging her into his arms and taking her to bed. Lee didn't let him do things like that, but she would sleep on him, curled into his side. He misses that feeling.

Cobblepot clears his throat. "You mentioned the ballot earlier," he says. "I know you voted for James, but--"

"What makes you think that?" 

"The police union backed James." 

"Yeah, well, I'm not the head any more. I voted for you." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah." Jim looks down at Cobblepot. Cobblepot's eyes are wide and pale as the winter sky. "You're a murderer, and I'll put you in Blackgate as soon as I can prove it, but when you say you love this city, I believe it. If you do the right thing for the wrong reason, it's still the right thing."

Cobblepot's eyes water. "Detective Gordon, that is remarkably pragmatic of you." His tone is warm. Damn near flirtatious. Jim finds he doesn't mind. They're having a moment, here in the dirty Gotham snow. 

"How's the leg?"

"I must continue, so I shall," Cobblepot says. There's an edge to his voice, something slightly manic. "I am familiar with pain. After a while, it becomes, if not a friend, then a companion, something dependable. I know the exact size and shape of my body's betrayal." He takes a step, his knee stiff, his foot held sideways, and he inhales sharply. Sweat rolls down his temple. "Keep up, Jim," he says. 

Cobblepot holds onto Jim's arm with a grip so tight his bones grind, so Jim has no choice but to match his swaying gait. He doesn't say a word. 

It turns out the service station is closed. Figures. Gotham's economy is coming back under Cobblepot, but it's taken a lot of hits over the past few years. Still, there's a pay phone, and he keeps fifty cents in his pocket out of habit, so he helps the mayor find a seat on an overturned trash can and calls in his location. He'll have two black and whites and an ambulance in fifteen minutes.

The open road makes him itch, though. "We should wait in back," he says. 

Cobblepot nods. He puts up his hand; he grimaces when Jim pulls him to his feet. He can barely touch his bad foot to the ground. Jim knows how that goes, when you're hurt and stop for a minute. It's a thousand times worse when you start again.

"Okay," Jim says. "Don't have me shot, all right?" He bends down and sweeps Cobblepot into his arms. 

Cobblepot's hands fly to his shoulders. Jim can see the fight in his face for a split second, before Cobblepot relaxes into his grasp. "Oh," Cobblepot says, softly. "You are most diligent in your duty." 

Jim carries him to the back of the station. "It's not duty," he says. He leans his back against the brick wall. "I promise to set you down when you want." 

Cobblepot rests his cheek against Jim's shoulder. He looks exhausted. He doesn't say anything. 

Jim tries again. "Back to the issue of who tried to kill you." Cobblepot is heavy in his arms, too heavy, making his arms burn. He'll feel this tomorrow.

"I have no idea who has been making these attempts on my life," Cobblepot lies.

"Love is a bitch, isn't it? I heard what happened," Jim says. "You gave Ed your heart and he put a knife straight through it." He also heard that Cobblepot killed the man's girlfriend. He knows exactly who he has in his arms. 

"I don't blame Ed. He didn't feel the same way, it's perfectly understandable, it's not the way he was made." 

Jim shifts his grip, exhaling across Cobblepot's body. Their snowy breath leaves a sparkle of frost on their wraps. "Love is terrible. I love Lee. Still do. But I gave her a dead baby and a dead husband. My love is nothing but fear and pain," he says. "But I keep looking for someone, and I know you're looking, too. You should look at me."

Cobblepot smells like smoke, both wood and gasoline, and like fear, and like the winter air. "What a suggestion," he says. His face is frozen. Nothing moves but his hair, ruffling in the knifelike breeze.

"I'm not going to pretend it's not selfish. I want someone who's already in this fucked up way of life. But you need someone dependable, who will betray you to your face. I promise if I act against you, it'll be with handcuffs, not with assassination attempts." 

Cobblepot doesn't answer. Jim looks up at the sky and squashes the tiny smudge of hope inside him. "Well, I've had worst first dates," he says to the bare trees. 

Cobblepot laughs slightly. "When did the date begin?"

"When you told me about your mother and you promised me a plaque. I changed my mind, I'm holding you to that. I'm going to get killed soon enough--" The words escape his teeth with something like a snarl. He's almost looking forward to it, his inevitable end. He just hopes it isn't too ugly. Shot in the head in an alley, not shredded piece by piece by Zsasz or beaten to death by Butch's metal hand. 

"Oh," Cobblepot says. He curls a hand into Jim's lapel. "Normally I begin with flowers and a meal. But we did, after all, meet in an alley, so I suppose a date on the roadway is appropriate. Hold on to me," he says. 

Jim, surprised, holds on. Cobblepot kisses him hard. 

He's very toothy. It's not a great kiss, as kisses go. But it feels right. He's fucked up so much; of course he's here in the cold with a criminal biting his lip. He holds Cobblepot close, left arm under his thighs, right arm under his back, fists clenched against the too-heavy weight. His muscles burn against his bones. He wouldn't drop Cobblepot if he were on fire. 

Cobblepot breaks away and stares into his eyes. "Do you like steak?" he asks. 

Jim nods. 

"And roses? I prefer orchids, myself." 

"I'll get you orchids," Jim says. 

"But this first date was yours. The second is mine. Roses?" 

Jim nods. He does like roses. They're classic. 

"Tomorrow night? I fear I will spend tonight in the hospital. The ambulance is coming." 

He can hear the siren. "Should I set you down?" 

"I have more authority on my feet." 

Yeah. Jim understands. "Put your arm around my neck," he says. "Right arm, so I have my gun hand free." 

Just in case. 

Penguin braces with him. They stand in the shadow of the building, listening to the sirens, until they hear voices. "Safe?" Jim asks. 

"As safe as any in Gotham," Penguin says. His voice sparkles. He knows exactly how dangerous this is. 

Jim steals one last kiss, and then they walk out from behind the building. 

the end.


End file.
